


dawn disrupts me

by pseudocitrus



Series: dawn disrupts me [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Other, Smut, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loneliness, and hunger. Urie might have overdone it; Mutsuki tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for an anon prompt months ago which you can see [here](http://pseudocitrus.tumblr.com/post/126156521069/i-really-dont-like-sending-a-prompt-to-you).
> 
> this fic comes about also bc i got inspired by [neimana](http://neimana.tumblr.com)’s [Urie/Touka comic](http://neimana.tumblr.com/post/125497299048/click-each-pic-for-better-resolution-a-while) and shamelessly wanted to play with some old ideas again.this is like an au/ghost twin of [silhouette](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3527906), now with mostly mutsurie flavor and some nsfw. also included: a little touka/sasaki & urie->touka.
> 
> this also (maybe?? just to be safe) contains some mild eating disorder-related stuff, and dysphoria-related stuff. and something that starts without enthusiastic verbal consent from both parties so i kinda think of that as mild dubcon??
> 
> if you paid to read this, i'm sorry. this is a fic that you can find on tumblr and ao3.
> 
> i hope you’re having a good day~

After a while, he figures that it isn’t… _that_ bad to have Kirishima over at the Chateau all the time. For one thing, Sasaki doesn’t waste everyone’s time anymore by forcing them all to go to that old cafe under the premise of needing a place to get work done. For another — her company isn’t that bad.

At night, when she can’t sleep, she goes down into the kitchen and quietly makes herself a drink. He ran into her there, once, while reviewing documents; and now, somehow, they see each other all the time.

The coffee she makes for him in the early hours tastes different, somehow — less bitter than usual. Her persona, too, has a different tinge — a little less sweet, a little more raw. She speaks without so much sugar. She stares into her cup as if parsing unfathomable distances.

“All this just to hunt down a ghoul, huh,” she mutters. She sweeps her hand in the air over the papers laid out end-to-end on the counter. She sits down, and her elbow slides some of the papers out of place, and he immediately slides the papers back.

“How does it feel,” she says, “to be hunting down ghouls, even when that’s half of what you are?”

“I’m a human,” he tells her flatly.

Kirishima says nothing, and Urie presses further.

“Do you see me eating people? I’m not a monster. I’m a human.”

“Hmm,” is all Kirishima replies, and she sips her coffee. If there’s one thing he’s learned about her from all their time spent together, it’s that she’s a quiet woman, too calm even for arguments.

They talk: work, fathers, the hues of coffee roasts. When she reaches the end of her cup, she washes it, says her farewells, and then climbs back up the stairs. Urie watches until he hears Sasaki’s door click shut.

Sasaki is shameless. This isn’t what their living stipend is supposed to be going toward. Sasaki would get into trouble about it, probably — allowing someone like Kirishima just — have access to all their discussions.

But even the thought of Arima getting mad at his precious prodigy can’t bring Urie to heave his complaints past the knot in his throat. The slight coarseness of her voice at this hour is strangely compelling. He finds himself trying to memorize the curves of wrist bones for later.

“Goodnight, Urie-san,” Kirishima says. Her tongue slides out, the tip of it dabbing away a last droplet of coffee, and she makes a soft smile that glistens in the corner.

“Goodnight, Kirishima,” he replies, and he looks down, and only looks up again when the stairs creak.

_Click._

:::

One day, the Chateau is empty when he comes back. He slams his water bottle on the counter, and checks the fridge, but the only real nourishment in there is a couple of Yonebayashi’s trash soft drinks, and even “real” is an overstatement for those.

Everyone’s out getting groceries, then. Urie finishes what’s left of his water bottle and climbs up the stairs, and that’s when he hears it — a noise, just above the sound of his music. A voice, it seems, more than one, coming from down the hall. Is everyone not getting groceries after all? Maybe it’s Sasaki finally lecturing Yonebayashi on her health choices…but no, it doesn’t quite sound like…

What _is_ that?

He doesn’t think, he just doesn’t, it doesn’t even occur to him that it’s strange for Sasaki’s door to be left open as far as it is, and strange for a piece of clothing to be strewn on the floor just beyond its frame. All he thinks is, _That’s unusual,_ Sasaki isn’t usually that messy, and Urie unhooks a headphone from his ear.

_“Haah —”_

That…doesn’t sound like Sasaki. Or Yonebayashi. Or anyone else that lives here.

It kind of — sounds like —

“Haah… _Haise_ …”

He doesn’t think, he just doesn’t, his feet just carry him forward, and his eyes trailing. A tie, a blouse, an inverted pair of tights and pinstriped slacks. And then, right there, on the floor —

Kirishima, and Sasaki. Kissing. _Hard_ — gasping and whispering and gripping, so immersed in their sensations and in each other’s presence that they don’t even notice Urie there, don’t even notice when Urie somehow can’t bring himself to move from his position.

Sasaki is a pushover and irritatingly gentle, but he tears Kirishima’s underwear off and the rip is audible. Kirishima is a quiet and calm and has never once raised her voice but the moan that exits her mouth when Sasaki sucks her nipple is loud and hoarse with need.

“Haah, Haaise, _Haaaise_ —”

Her voice is breaking. She parts her legs for him and then pinches her knees to bring him near, even as her hand squeezes between them, positioning. He whispers something to her and pushes himself closer, closer, closer, and the arch of Kirishima’s back is perfect, her skin is beginning to shine with sweat, and it’s turning a vivid, lovely red.

When his hands smooth over the ripple of Kirishima’s lowest rib — Urie can almost feel the tremble against his own palms. When Kirishima’s teeth nibble and bury into his shoulder, Urie can almost feel the flutter and pinch. At some point Urie’s senses slam and flood back into him and he beats a fast retreat, but even shuttered in his room, with the volume of his headphones turned up…is it his imagination? Or is that really her voice, begging for release, crying in ecstasy?

_Over…and over…and —_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mutsurie part :)

 

There had been so many good signs. Urie had started regularly attending dinners, and rarely said anything, but at least didn’t snark beneath his breath either. Sometimes he checked the grocery list and returned from his runs toting a plastic bag. Occasionally he even entertained conversation about things not immediately related to work.

Now, suddenly, it’s stopped. By the time Urie gets home, all the dishes are already cleaned and put away, and he goes straight up to his room, and stays there. When Mutsuki comes down in the morning, there’s no longer documents spread out everywhere and an empty cup in the sink.

Mutsuki waits, leg swinging, staring at the book he has cracked open in front of him whenever someone comes by to retrieve water or snacks from the fridge. He’s determined to catch him today, and he straightens when the door swings open.

“Urie-kun,” he calls, “welcome home —”

But Urie doesn’t even spare a glance. He shoves his shoes into the shelving and the creak of the stairs beneath his hasty ascent is only a little louder than his blaring music. Mutsuki bites his lip.

_Something is wrong._

Urie speaks even less than usual. When he isn’t at the gym, he goes out to investigate on his own. Shirazu and then Sasaki try to reason with him, but he just glares silently at the former and won’t even meet the eyes of the latter.

_“Urie-kun,”_  Mutsuki tries, next time, a little more loudly. There is still no effect, and, with some frustration, he races after Urie and, just as Urie is at the base of the steps, grabs his arm. Urie isn’t expecting it; he stumbles back, and whirls with a glare.

_”What?”_  he demands, ripping out a headphone.

“N-nothing!” Mutsuki stammers. He holds up his hands, palms open, and then closes them and bunches them at his side.

“Ah,” Mutsuki tries, “I mean — how, ah, are you? Are you alright? Recently?”

“Yes,” Urie responds, though somehow what Mutsuki also hears is,  _Get out of my face,_  and he swallows and nods and steps back as Urie resumes going up the stairs. The door to Urie’s bedroom slams.

Mutsuki uncurls one of his fists, and looks down with a grimace.

Is it just him, or does Urie have a lot more muscle than he did before?

:::

Being alone is painful. It’s agony.

But the harder Mutsuki tries to include him, the harder Urie resists. He doesn’t bite any offering. He doesn’t bother replying to Mutsuki’s questions with a single spoken word.

And then. One day Urie comes back from his private training, and opens the fridge. Mutsuki knows better than to try making a move when Urie is deciding what to eat, but after a moment, he feels a familiar prickle wash across the back of his neck. He looks up, and starts.

Urie is staring at him.

“W-what?” Mutsuki asks, and Urie’s eyes narrow, slightly.

_Nothing_ , is the obvious response.

Btu it’s…weird. The next day, when they are bringing in the groceries, Urie is there, for once — and starts going through the bags. Mutsuki clears his throat.

“Urie-kun? What are you looking for?”

“Did you get a new shampoo or something?” he asks flatly. “A new soap?”

“Ah…no, I didn’t. Did you need some? You can use some of mine.”

“No,” Urie says, though whether he means  _I don’t need it_  or  _That’s beside the point_  is something Mutsuki can’t conclude even after mulling for the rest of the evening.

As the days pass, Mutsuki finds himself biting his lip more and more often.

_Something is…off._

He…well, he always notices, when people’s eyes follow him. Even now, with his gaze aimed firmly away, he can tell that Urie is watching him. He’s aware of it happening, in a way that is no different than usual.

…well…no, no, it  _is_  different. The feeling that wells up in his chest when Urie’s eyes fix on him isn’t the overwhelming, oily churn that floods and feels like it greases Mutsuki’s every movement. It’s…a lighter feeling. Something not quite about his own body at all. When Urie faces elsewhere, Mutsuki raises his own gaze, just a little, and watches him back.

The muscles that seem to be standing out more and more on Urie’s body. The focus with which his eyes hold everything, and how he can almost see his tightly-leashed words bobbing up against his Adam’s apple. How dextrous his fingers are, and how his every motion is meticulous yet he has more little chips of color beneath his nails nowadays. What would it be like if Urie put those hands on —

“What?” Urie asks, and Mutsuki stands up, so suddenly that his knees bang against the bottom of the counter.

“W-welcome home!” he gasps. “I saved some dinner for you!”

“Oh,” Urie says, meaning  _I don’t need it,_  but Mutsuki is prepared: he grabs Urie’s wrist and slaps a pair of chopsticks into his open palm.

“Eat it,” he says, trying to sound cheerful and not nervous. “Staying properly nourished is the best way to grow muscle, you know?”

“Rc cells do a better job of growing muscle than…whatever shit Sasaki makes,” Urie grumbles.

_He’s talking, good, good._  Mutsuki smiles, encouraged.

“I was actually the one who made dinner today,” he confesses. “I looked around for different things and this has a lot of protein, so, it should really help with your training. Come on, sit!”

He makes his voice bright, and then holds his breath — and then struggles to make his relief less obvious when Urie finally pulls out a stool and sits himself down. He takes a mouthful, and chews. Slowly.

“How is it?” Mutsuki asks, as if the answer doesn’t particularly matter.

“Fine,” Urie replies.

_Does he mean “not horrible”?_  Mutsuki wonders. Or, “ _Good?”_

In any case, Urie continues eating, and doesn’t offer up any more protests the rest of the week when he comes back home to Mutsuki pulling a plastic-covered plate out from the microwave. He eats silently while Mutsuki picks over dessert, or a book. It’s not much, Mutsuki admits, but at least this is one hour where he is sure that Urie isn’t left by himself.

At first, the silence between them panics Mutsuki into filling it with desperate questions and ramblings about the weather and the news. With Sensei and Saiko-chan and Shirazu-kun, there’s always plenty of words and chatting exchanged, but replicating the same with Urie is difficult at best and impossible at worst. He never has more than a one-word answer to Mutsuki’s questions, and after some time, Mutsuki just fills the void by chatting about his own day: the books he’s reading, the investigations he’s on, the musings that he had earlier about things that he couldn’t quite squeeze in between Shirazu and Saiko’s banter.

Even if Urie doesn’t necessary add a lot himself, he seems fine listening, and Mutsuki finds that it’s kind of nice to have someone to confide in. Even on the days when Mutsuki doesn’t have much to say, there’s something else invigorating about their easy wordlessness.

:::

Mutsuki starts saving half of his own dinners to eat when Urie returns home.  _I could do this for a long time without getting bored of it,_  he realizes, and the night that he thinks this is the night that Urie brings his chopsticks into his mouth and, instead of swallowing, spasms and spits.

_“What the hell is this?_ ” he hisses.

“H-huh? W-what’s the matter?”

“What did you do to this food?”

“I — I didn’t do anything especially different —”

“Something’s wrong with it! It — doesn’t —” He struggles for words, and then pinches up a piece of meat with his chopsticks and holds it out. Mutsuki blinks, and stares at it, and then, after a swift inhale, shuts his mouth down on Urie’s chopsticks. His lips slide. He chews. Swallows.

“It tastes fine,” Mutsuki says, nervously, rubbing his warming cheek, and Urie is silent, and then separates another mouthful, takes another bite. He works at it, slowly. Cheek bulging, throat jerking.

“…right. My mistake,” Urie mutters. But the blood has drained from his face, a bit, and he takes care to leave not even a bit of food on his plate. He looks…

Mutsuki purses his lips, thinking. He looks…exactly like how Sensei looked the time a child on the street offered him some candy to eat.

His investigator’s mind isn’t supposed to be put to work on his own squad members, but it cranks away, and quietly offers up memories. Urie’s growing muscle mass. His strange comment the other day about Rc cells. And the fact, previously innocuous, that when Shiba-sensei pulled out Mutsuki’s files at his last appointment, Shiba-sensei’s shelf had been so unusually stuffed that another fat folder had fallen out and spilled across the counter.

At his next appointment, when Shiba-sensei injects him and leaves him to rest a while, Mutsuki tries not to look at the shelf.

_Don’t,_  he thinks,  _do not,_  there’s something important about patient privacy, but, but there’s also something important about making sure your friend is well, and all it takes is a single glance.

That evening, when Urie comes home, Mutsuki is waiting, with dinner. He slides the plate over, and when Urie stares at it, Mutsuki spools some noodles up in his chopsticks and holds it up. Urie’s eye twitches, but he sits. His teeth scrape. He cups his palm over his mouth, and Mutsuki drops the chopsticks on the plate.

“You went too far,” he gasps, and Urie’s glare tells him that Urie understands what he means perfectly.

“I did not.”

“You need to tell Shiba-sensei,” Mutsuki says, “you  _need_  to. And if you tell Sasaki, maybe he can help you out with —”

“No!” Urie snaps. “I am not telling that idiot anything!”

“But —”

Urie stands, hands flat on the counter. “Do not,” he growls, “tell him, or anyone. This is my personal business. My own body. Understand?”

Mutsuki swallows. “Yeah…yeah. Of course. Understood.”

:::

Dinner doesn’t seem like the best excuse anymore to make sure that Urie doesn’t spend too much of his time alone, but Mutsuki can’t bring himself to give it up. When Urie comes back home next, Mutsuki greets him with a couple cans of coffee. Urie looks like he might refuse, at first — he opens the fridge, and searches it, and closes it — he heaves a sigh. Then he sits, and holds out his hand. When Mutsuki hands a can over, their fingers brush. They hesitate. Mutsuki smiles and cracks his can open, and Urie does as well, and they sip.

The atmosphere feels heavy, and it doesn’t lighten the next day, or the next.

“Maybe, for next time, I can ask Kirishima to teach me how to make some coffee fresh,” Mutsuki says lightly.

Urie’s expression doesn’t lift a centimeter. “It’s not necessary,” he says calmly, but Mutsuki is sure there’s a  _Fuck no_  wrapped up in there somehow, and he coughs.

Is it just him, or is Urie already losing weight? Is it just him, or is Urie getting so pale that his moles are standing out more and more? It’s not like Mutsuki can actually measure it, but there’s definitely some darkness beneath Urie’s eyes, and he isn’t bothering to comb down his tousled hair.

It isn’t possible for him to actually starve to death, right? There’s no way that would actually happen, and no way that Urie would ever let that happen. Right? Mutsuki fidgets. Urie stares down at his empty coffee can, for a long time, silently, for so long Mutsuki seriously wonders if he’s somehow fallen asleep with his eyes open.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Urie asks.

“Ah…” So he’s awake after all. Mutsuki clears his throat. “Doing what?”

Urie raises the can and waves it indicatively. A couple last droplets spill on his wrist. It doesn’t look like he notices.

“This,” he says, flatly.

“Eating with you? I mean…I do it because…I think it’s fun.”

He smiles. Urie looks unimpressed. Mutsuki clears his throat, again.

“Isn’t it fun for you too? When it’s just us together?”

Mutsuki waits. Every silent second that passes knots his chest up a little tighter. Urie’s gaze drifts down to Mutsuki’s wrists and stays there.

_Maybe I didn’t say it loud enough_ , Mutsuki thinks, but he can’t quite bring himself to ask again. Urie leaves, and when his door finally closes Mutsuki takes his first real breath in what feels like hours.

:::

Something is really wrong. Mutsuki’s lip is constantly bleeding, he keeps losing track of conversations, he almost bumps into a wall, twice. Something is really the matter with Urie, something is going to break any minute now and Mutsuki can’t, no matter how hard he tries, think of any good way to help. When Urie comes back one night panting and trips on something in the entryway, Mutsuki’s heart drops, and the only thing he thinks is,  _There it is, it’s finally happened._ He rushes forward to help Urie up, but Urie is focused on what has tripped him: Kirishima’s shoes.

“She’s here?”

“Ah, yeah.” Mutsuki’s brows furrow. “Urie-kun, are you alri —”

“ _YES_ ,” he snaps.

“Okay…okay.” Mutsuki extends a hand to help him up, and Urie takes it, but when he starts to prop himself up on one leg, Urie —  _stumbles_. He  _falls_ , flat, fingers scrabbling on the floor. His body curls; his arms wrap around his stomach. His breathing is ragged, and Mutsuki feels the blood drain from his face.

_This is bad, this is bad, this is really, really —_

“Urie-kun?” he calls, but his voice isn’t more than a whisper, and Urie’s breath is so rough that he probably can’t even hear him. Mutsuki heaves Urie up onto his feet, bracing one of his arms over his shoulder. He starts to help Urie to the couch, and then, when Urie growls his protests, begins carrying him all the way up to Urie’s room.

“Hang in there,” Mutsuki says in panic. “Urie-kun, hang in there, okay? I really — I really don’t want to see you get hurt, so — just hang in there, and I’ll — figure out something —”

He works the doorknob, somehow, and knees the door open. Mutsuki hasn’t been here before — the place is surprisingly cool — there’s an easel set up in the corner, and a couple canvases, one of which is tipped over. In the dimness, all he can make out is that it’s splattered with dark paint.

He tries to maneuver Urie to his bed, but Urie’s limbs drag. He’s getting heavier. Mutsuki tries to close the remaining distance by shoving him, but Urie’s leg catches on the back of his knee and they both end up crumpling to the floor instead.

“Sorry!” Mutsuki gasps, scrambling out from beneath him and kneeling over. “Sorry, sorry, let me just — I can just — w-well, before that, are you okay?”

Urie groans in response. His breathing is still labored, but he takes one big inhale, and that’s when it happens. His body stills.

“Urie-kun?” Mutsuki blinks as Urie props himself up on the floor. His breath gusts out the hair on his forehead. One of his irises is stained red.

He…is…staring.

And it’s not…unpleasant.

“Mutsuki,” he says hoarsely. “You smell good.”

“O-oh? Is…is that so,” Mutsuki says, mostly because he can’t think of anything else to say. He considers asking Urie again if he is alright but any words that start to align in his brain are flung apart when Urie leans up further, leans in closer.

“You’ve smelled good for a long time now,” he says, and Mutsuki notices when he swallows that his own throat is completely dry.

“I…don’t think that’s me,” he manages. “I’m the same as always. I think that the problem is, ah, I think that’s just, you, Urie-kun, and your — your medication —”

“No,” Urie says, “you smell delicious,” and Mutsuki feels faint, what is Urie saying, does he know, does he even know what he’s doing right now, does he know that he is bringing his face closer to Mutsuki’s neck and inhaling deep and nuzzling his face beneath Mutsuki’s ear? Does he know that Mutsuki’s heart is pounding? Does he know that the soft pressure of his lips on Mutsuki’s neck is making goosebumps rise across Mutsuki’s whole body?

Mutsuki shivers; he raises his hands and they end up against Urie’s chest, fingers splayed across the muscle. Urie’s lips purse, and suck, and Mutsuki gasps; his fingers jerk, gripping Urie’s shirt.

“U-Urie-kun —”

“And,” Urie murmurs, “you taste good too.”

_…me?_

Somehow it doesn’t sound like there are any extra words being suppressed in his throat. This is really what he’s saying, and Mutsuki’s fingers tighten.

_Closer_. He pulls the fabric taut.  _Closer, closer,_  his weight shifts and he falls back onto the floor and Urie follows over him, still nibbling. His tongue presses into the soft skin beneath Mutsuki’s chin. Urie inhales again and Mutsuki trembles.

It feels good. Focusing on this sounds and feels better than panicking about the impossibility of what is happening. It feels good, it is weird, maybe, a little, that it’s Urie that’s doing this, but it feels — good,  _good_ , Urie against him in real life feels even better than it had felt in any of his quickly-suppressed imaginings.

Urie’s eyes are watching carefully every centimeter of skin that he has made gleam and Mutsuki listens hard to his own body and it isn’t withering, it’s yawning awake, it’s buzzing and it’s scratching Urie’s shoulder blades and it’s getting hot. Mutsuki inverts his sweater over his head, and the pile of it is soon followed by Urie’s shirt as well.

Urie nibbles into the crook of Mutsuki’s neck and his hands raise toward the top of Mutsuki’s remaining shirt — the first button comes undone easily, and Mutsuki’s hands jolt impulsively, keeping the collar from falling open. But Urie just draws each finger into his mouth, one by one, sucking them and cradling each with his tongue down to the knuckle, and when he is finished with the tenth, Mutsuki, with trembling and wet fingertips, undoes the remaining buttons.

Urie is looming over him now, kneeling, legs bent at either side of Mutsuki’s waist. His palms smooth down Mutsuki’s chest and ribs and his belly, feeling every contour, and at the soft protrusion of his hip bones, they pause.

And hesitate.

Mutsuki bites his lip. “It’s — okay,” he says, but his voice is bare, and with some sudden resolve he unbuttons his slacks, and grabs one of Urie’s hands. He poises the fingers at the hem.

There’s no further encouragement needed; Urie’s fingers slide down, and down, and then up again, and down again, and at first his fingers feel rough with callouses and then, abruptly, they are too slick for Mutsuki to notice anything except insistent, soft stroking.

Mutsuki can’t hold back a moan; his back begins to arch off the hardwood. Urie unhooks and flings his headphones aside, and presses himself against him, so Mutsuki’s body trembles and rises against his, so Mutsuki’s gasps and helpless pleas are smothered against his ear.

“Haah, higher, h-higher,” Mutsuki sputters, raising his legs, “no, now lower, just — a little — yeah, that’s — ah, ahh,  _ahhh_  —”

Words leave him. He wraps his arms around Urie’s neck, hips rocking, as heat shudders and rolls and grows and  _thrashes_  — his elbows fold even tighter and his knees pinch, and pinch, and squeeze, hard, as Mutsuki whines and almost bites the lobe of Urie’s ear. Then, after a long moment, all that’s left is…

Fuzziness. Weakness. Too-loud breath. The dim, cold room, and the scent of Urie’s sweat mingling with the scent of paint.

Mutsuki’s eyepatch has fallen off, somehow, somewhere. When his eyes focus, he sees Urie, closing his red eye. Letting his knitted brows loosen, letting his body go slack. Withdrawing his fingers from his mouth, and releasing a shiver, and a sigh.


End file.
